


FICLET:  The Pricking of Pins

by Hippediva



Category: John Wilmot - Fandom, Lord Rochester
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings after have their charms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FICLET:  The Pricking of Pins

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |   
morose  
---|---  
**Current music:** | Silence  
  
_**FICLET: The Pricking of Pins**_  
DISCLAIMER: Rochester is God or Satan's. I do not own him.  
PAIRING: Rochester, OMC implied  
RATING: A little naughty

SUMMARY: Mornings after have their charms.

"If you please, Sir, would you turn around."

He swayed in place, steadied by his valet's clammy hand and he wiped his own on his breeches with a sour face, planting his feet a little further apart to support him on their high, red heels.

"Don't make me swim in the damned thing!" he snapped. "Wine."

His valet hid a grin, and held up the bottle to carefully fill his cup. He ignored the cup and took the bottle.

The tailor fussed around him like a gnome with a treasure, pinning and marking with chalk that got into his nose and made him sneeze.

"So sorry, milord. Now, what do you think?" He turned his august charge to face the mirror.

"I don't think." he muttered, staring at the interior of the coat, marked with arcane slashes and pinned together, the pieces of brocade flopping against one another, sagging in loose folds without the buckram lining.

"It hangs but limply from shoulders too narrow. OW!" He slapped at the gnarled, clever hands and took another pull from the bottle, his mouth stained the plum-ripe colour of a bruise.

His face was hard with irritation, too pale and peaked with last night's indulgence.

He raised the bottle. "May your prick never lie so shamefully flaccid! It seems, dear sir, that your pins have pricked my bum most deep." He toasted himself to apologies of the tailor and the titters of his assistants, rolling his eyes.

What was the point of all this except another new fashion to shred on the barbs of St. James?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tailor's young apprentice staring in open admiration. His eyes wandered back to the mirror.

He hid a half-smile in the neck of the bottle and forbore complaint until the fitting was completed. He turned and barely beckoned, the lace frill of his cuff fluttering over his small hand. His valet hurriedly gulped down the cup and slipped the tailor some advice and a few shillings.

There were worse ways, he supposed, to spend a morning than amidst brocade and buggery.


End file.
